


The Sun is Going Down

by hannathing



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Stiles is a BAMF, fairy tale AU, sterek, vaguely....
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannathing/pseuds/hannathing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beacon Hills has always been a wonderful place to live. Bright and cheery, except for the problems with mythical creatures. Sheriff Stilinski volunteers to lead the hunt, to keep the town of Beacon Hills safe for all of its people. All the creatures are caught, sometimes studied, and always killed. Stiles understands his father’s position, his duty to protect, but he can’t help but oppose the decisions made when the hunters bring home what is probably the last living werewolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sun is Going Down

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic in a looong time, and I know my characters are very ooc, I'm so sorry.
> 
> Edit: Removed some problematic descriptions of people and fixed a few typos.

Stiles wakes when he hears his father yelling, the door to their home flying open. He hears the other hunters, dragging, thumping. Stiles knows he’s to stay in his room. This isn’t the first time the hunters have brought their prey home to lock in the metal boxes his father keeps in the basement.

The boxes they keep for monsters.

The hunters continue to thump around downstairs, as Stiles lays in his bed, eyes open, carefully listening. They seem to be struggling with whatever creature they’ve caught this time. He strains his ears, closing his eyes. Whatever was caught doesn’t seem to be fighting, but isn’t going willingly either.

He itches to creep down the stairs, peek around corners, see what it is the men have brought home this time. They were all so secretive this time, whispered conversations cut short when he walked into rooms. Nothing like any of the other hunts, with his father telling him to stay home on certain nights, utilizing his son’s deep curiosity as a tool for research. It was like the sheriff felt safe having Stiles nearby, even if he was involved.

Stiles decides to go meet it in the morning, when his father is sleeping off his late night.

*

The sun is barely starting to creep over the horizon when Stiles wakes up, hours before his weekend is to begin. Usually, the morning after the hunt is spent reorganizing the information references, putting away files, and making room for Deaton and his files of what he may discover from the creature caught this time.

Stiles has a sneaking suspicion Deaton will have a lot to add to the files this time.

Being the uncoordinated boy he is, Stiles, still in his pajamas, makes every effort to slowly creep down the stairs. As he reaches the bottom, Stiles is quite proud of himself. He hasn’t tripped yet, and was doing pretty good at this sneaking thing. Maybe he was finally growing into what used to feel like too-long limbs. Knowing he’d have only an hour or so before his dad was up, Stiles makes his way to the basement. The stairs are steep and worn, the middles lower than the rest of the step. Stiles slowly makes his way down, carefully stepping, trying his best to not breath loudly.

Of course it would be just his luck that his sock would catch on the wood of the stairs, sending him sliding down the last few steps. He holds his breath, waiting, hoping his wild grab for the railing has lessened his fall, lessened the noise. He counts to 20, starts breathing again and counts his heartbeat until its normal again.

Pulling himself to his feet, Stiles looks around him, trying to find the box with the creature could be kept in. The boxes are kept in rows, the backs butted up against one another with a wide aisle in the middle. The sides and the back are solid, while the front has bars. They all stand at 3 feet tall. There are even some boxes where the front is a special glass, for the creatures with long reaches that would probably try something through the bars. The floor of each aisle is marked with a number.

Stiles ambles along the aisles, walking quickly through the first few, knowing his father wouldn’t have put this creature so close to the stairs. He’s in the 4th aisle of the 5 when he stops, chilled to the bone. He opens his mouth, wants to speak, but his mouth is dry, leaves it open.

Something is different.

Stiles knows exactly which box the creature is in. He walks to it, the second from the end of the row, before the turn where it would become aisle 5. He stares down at the box, not willing to crouch yet to look into it. Finally, he bends his knees, balancing on the balls of his feet, and gapes.

The creature is gorgeous.

Well, he? He’s gorgeous, Stiles corrects himself. The creature is a man, full grown, built, tan, and even though he’s crammed in a box, he still manages to look tense, intimidating, ready to attack. Stiles continues to stare, at a lost. He wasn’t expecting this. Maybe another troll, or hob, or even a kappa. But not… a man.

“Hi,” Stiles finally speaks, breathless. The man says nothing, simply stares back, unmoving. Stiles would be tempted to call it a glare, to put some emotion to it, but the look is… empty. Not even curious. The man simply looks unblinkingly at Stiles, his face void of anything.

“Do you want me to get you some water or something?” he tries again. Still, the man is silent, but Stiles is willing to wait. He leans back, sits on his butt, keeps his knees pulled up to his chest. Minutes pass, and Stiles simply observes the man.

The man is seriously built, like biceps on his biceps, and Stiles can make out the definition of his torso through his thin wife-beater, torn and bloodied. Even though he’s curled onto himself, he doesn’t look small. Stiles marvels at his build. Flicking his eyes to the man’s face, he finds the man is still staring.

Stiles gulps, his heart rate picking up, and finally takes in his face.

He has these horribly defined cheekbones, and stubble, and a great jaw line. Stiles almost groans, the way the man’s hazel gray eyes bore into him from under expressive eyebrows. Stiles quickly decides to himself this man is perfect. But a thought stirs in his mind. What is this man? Why did his father hunt him?

“So what are you? Why did the Sheriff want to capture you so badly?” Finally the man stirs, leaning over himself. His eyes flash blue, bright in the darkness of the basement. Stiles doesn’t gasp, but he does flinch, his natural instinct telling him to run. The man speaks then.

“I’m the last one.”

*

“Did they catch it?”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, mind in the basement with the man. Scott, Stiles’ best friend, watches him carefully.

“And?” He prompts. When Stiles doesn’t reply, he pushes. “What was it they were hunting?”

Stiles takes a moment, looks at his bestfriend. Everyone in Beacon Hills had essentially adopted Scott, all realizing the true extent of his naivety and honest goodness in his heart. Which is why the two boys find themselves sitting in Scott’s kitchen, a cherry pie sitting between them, forks in hand, and half the pie gone. The pie being a gift from Mrs. Norris from up the block.

“I don’t know,” he finally says. Scott stares for a moment.

“What? What does that mean?” Stiles huffs and rolls his eyes. He isn’t in a talking mood, so he simply shovels some pie into his mouth and relishes the tartness.

*

Stiles is in his room, researching blue eyes on his laptop, Scott having left to have “study” time with Allison, when he hears the front door. He hears a jingle of keys, and takes off down the stairs. His feet thud loudly on each step. Stiles stumbles down the last few steps, his momentum getting out of control, and rams into his dad.

“Jesus, Stiles,” his dad groans. The teen simply grins, the smile cracking his face in two.

“Dinner?” He asks instead.

“Give me a second, I’ve been home two seconds. I don’t even know, ok?” the Sheriff complains, giving his son a true bitchface. Stiles laughs, immune to the expression years ago.

“I’ll make the sides if you make everything else,” he offers. His dad groans again, knowing if he leaves Stiles to make the sides, all he’ll get are steamed veggies, cous cous, or spinach.

“How about we go out?” he offers.

“Oh, but don’t we have a guest?” Stiles hedges. That’s what they always call the creatures in the basement. “Can’t let them starve.” He wants to ask, to know more about the man with terrible blue eyes. His dad carefully watches, almost as if he can see all the questions threatening to spill out of his mouth. Fuck it, he thinks. “So, uh…”

“Deaton is going to be here the next few days, and I want you out of the house.” Stiles opens his mouth to argue, because seriously, fuck that noise, when his father’s voice fills the room. “I’m serious, Stiles. This one is dangerous.”

“Like the others weren’t?” He snarks, indignantly. “Like my life has never been in danger before?”

“It’s different this time” is all his father says.

*

Which is why when Stiles finds himself in the kitchen, waiting for the pot of water boil, the sheriff making a quick run for parmesan, he doesn’t hesitate to grab a bagel, a glass of water and a moist towel. Then he heads to the basement.

He doesn’t know what he’s thinking. Obviously, the water and food are awesome and super thoughtful, but Stiles’ is at a complete loss as to why he grabbed a dish towel, ran it under some warm water and is now carefully carrying the things as he finds his way down the stairs.

Whatever. He’ll deal with it.

“Hello?” Stiles calls. He’s at the front of the 4th aisle, knowing the man isn’t far. He stops, readjusting the things, bagel balanced on the cup, towel in his other hand. He hears the man shifting in his cage.

“I brought you some water,” he calls again. The shifting stops. Stiles walks the rest of the distance to the cage. He puts the towel on top of the cage, takes the bagel in his now free hand, and carefully sits, trying not to spill the water.

Which he fails to do.

“I have a bagel too. Which one do you want first?” The man stares, eyes flashing blue for a moment in the dim light. “Or both? I can do both. I also brought a towel, to uh… rub down with? I don’t know, in case you feel gross. Figured you’d feel gross, being in the… box all day, but if you don’t want it, that’s cool. So here’s the water, you should drink that. Well, it might be better to have the bagel now and use the water to help down it. I don’t really want you to choke on it. Mostly because I wouldn’t be able to explain that to the Sheriff.”

Stiles thrusts the bagel and cup of water at the man. Again, the man stares, and Stiles tries not to shiver in the gloom and dampness. Slowly, he uncurls himself, reaching toward the glass and bagel. He tries not to shake, the strong square hands reaching for his own thin hands. The man’s fingers brush against his as he grabs the cup. Stiles pulls away his hands as if he was burned.

The man tilts his head back and gulps the water, draining the glass in just a few swallows. Stiles watches his throat, mesmerized. Then he tears into the bagel, eating it in four bites.

“Uh, did you want the towel? The Sheriff with be back soon, so if you do….” Stiles says, standing, trying not to stare.

In response, the man sets the glass on the floor just outside of the box, and shuffles to the back of the box. Stiles takes a moment, stares, and considers. He quickly grabs the glass and towel, and runs to the stairs.

Before he heads up the stairs and closes the basement, he thinks he hears a quiet thank you.

*

With the Sheriff asleep on the couch, in a food coma, Stiles turns off the TV and finishes the dishes. Yeah, perfect son, he thinks to himself. Before his douchebag brain reminds him of all the times he’s snuck and gotten himself in the middle of crime scenes and creature attacks and just every sort of trouble possible.

Ok, maybe not perfect son, but better son that most?

Yeah, let’s go with that.

So he grabs another glass of water, and puts some of the left-over pasta in a bowl, grabs a plastic fork, just to be safe and makes his way for the basement again.

This time, he doesn’t slip, doesn’t slide, doesn’t pause at the aisle. Stiles simply crouches down and swears.

“Fuck me, the bowl isn’t going to fit.” He hadn’t considered the bars when he grabbed the dish. He glances at the man, who is coming towards the bars now. The man pushes himself up against the bars and Stiles freezes, not fidgeting, not his usual state of perpetual motion. For a moment, Stiles thinks the man is going to grab him, wring his neck easily with those strong hands. His breath catches in his throat, those hands coming ever near, but instead of his neck, they reach for the glass.

Stiles relaxes, the tension flowing out of his body. He watches at the man pulls the glass of water into the box, sipping the water this time. Instead of staring at Stile, he’s watching the bowl of pasta.

“Hang on, I have an idea. Sorry, could you back up to the far end?” He asks, just being careful, a part of him suspicious, the other wanting to trust. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth as the man scoots backwards, the cup still held in his hands. Stiles leans in close to the bars. Carefully, he tilts the bowl, his hand hovering over the top to prevent the pasta from spilling.

Once he gets it past the bars, he sits the bowl down, and backs away, sitting cross legged. The man looks at the bowl, then Stiles. As he shifts forward to grab the bowl, he takes the fork into his hand, still staring at Stiles.

“You can eat it, its ok. It isn’t poisoned or anything.”

“I’d smell if it was.” Stiles is silent then, not knowing what to say without putting his foot into his mouth. Maybe the whole damn leg. But the man simply takes the fork and shovels some of the pasta into his mouth.

“You never told me. What are you?” Stiles can’t let it go. The man looks up from the bowl, mouth full of food, and makes no effort to answer. He simply eats more pasta. “Why are you so important? Why are you so dangerous? I get you’re the last one, but there’s lots of last ones, and that generally means we don’t kill it, you know? Not that—shit,” His words cut off. The man shook his head.

“I understand my situation,” he says, setting the bowl down, neatly stacking the dishes. Stiles opens his mouth to speak again. Before he can say anything, he hears thumping coming from upstairs.

“Oh, fuck!” Stiles rushes to his feet, taking off down the aisles.

“Hey, the dishes!” The man yells, his voice gruff. Stiles turns on his heel.

“Fuck,” he swears again. “Of all the—fuck. I am so screwed. Dad told me no and I did anyways and oh my god, he’s going to kill me.” Stiles crouches in front of the box, reaches in for the dishes, not thinking of how the man is still sitting near the front.

The man grabs Stiles wrist, and they both freeze. Stile concentrates on his breathing, willing it to not stop, to not hyperventilate. Then he looks up, and finds those hazel grey eyes on his own brown, watches them bleed into blue. 

“You trust too easily.” Stiles’ heart stutters in his chest, the man’s grip strong. He starts to panic, adrenaline flooding this veins. “You’d think the Sheriff’s son would be smarter,” he spits, eyes burning brightly.

But he lets go, and Stiles stumbles backward, dishes clutched tightly in hands. He backs into the box behind him, and slides down, legs shaking.

“Why—why didn’t you…?” He starts, but can’t finish. Kill me, he wants to ask, rip my arm off, whatever. A silence opens wide between then. He continues. “You’re obviously fast, I don’t doubt strong. Even if you weren’t superhuman strong or anything, you’re obviously built, you could have done some serious damage.”

“And what? Knocked you out and have your father come looking for you, just so he could kill me now?” His eyes have stopped glowing blue, still his hazel eyes stare intently, angry. “I won’t hurt you.”

Stiles stares for a moment.

“Why?” he asks again. The man huffs, rolls his eyes and purses his lips.

“You helped me, even though you shouldn’t have, even though the Sheriff told you to stay away, you didn’t need to. But you did anyways,” he grates the words out, a growl in his voice. Stiles nods, then remembers.

“Fuck, I need to go upstairs. You stay here,” That earns him a look from the man, so he winces in response. “I mean, don’t freak, I’ll be back when I can. Deaton will be coming, don’t kill him. He just wants information. But I bet he knows more than I do.” Stiles stills for a moment. “I’m Stiles, by the way.” He’s hesitant to tell his name. There’s power in a name. Hence why his father is always the Sheriff, and Dad and so on. Titles, not a name. Just like Stiles isn’t a name.

“I know. I could hear him calling you that” He stares a moment too long into the man’s eyes.

“I’d better go.” He nods, and Stiles turns away.

“My name is Derek,” the man calls as Stiles is in the next row over. The teen stops, and smiles for a moment, then bolts for upstairs.

*

“So, I learned a bit more about this mysterious creature,” Stiles starts, talking to Scott on the phone.

“Yeah?” Scotts says obviously not paying attention, even though Stiles knows he’s interested.

“His eyes turn blue, depending on his emotion or something, he’s built, strong, fast, and has amazing hearing. But I can’t figure out what sort of fucking monster he is,” Stiles continues, regardless.

“Wait, what. He? The creature is a he?” There’s a pause. “Stiles…” Scott starts, warning and worry obvious in his tone.

“Of course the creature is a he, he looks like a full grown man. No horns, not anything than crazy blue eyes sometimes. Now will you kindly calm the fuck down?” A silence stretches between them.

“As long as you’re careful, I guess.”

*

The next morning, Sunday, his father wakes him up.

“Deaton is here. You need to clear out for a few hours.” Stiles groans, burrowing himself into his bed.

“Can’t I just stay in bed? Don’t deny that you know if you make me leave, I’m just going to drive to the park and sleep in my Jeep.” The sheriff groans.

“I’m locking your door then.” Stiles frowns, his eyes still closed.

“Sounds good to me,” he says, sarcastically. Like a door would save him from… whatever Derek was.

*

Stiles did stay in bed for a good two hours after that. He jiggled the handle to his door, found it locked, but he quickly picked that. However, opening the door revealed someone had moved the linen cupboard to block his door. Wanting to slam the door but knowing that would only cause problems, he instead locked the door again and shut it calmly.

Then he raged around his room, digging through his dresser, throwing books, tossing things he honestly did not care about until he found his iPod then his headphones. Blasting some music to help siphon off his mood, he sat at his laptop, grinding out a writing assignment for school.

An hour later, he feels, not so much hears the front door slam shut. Pausing his music, Stiles listens carefully, hears a car door, then another. Two engines start and two different cars drive off in the same direction.

Stiles tries his door again, finding it unlocked and the cupboard moved. Somehow he knows Deaton finished his research for the day, and the Sheriff and him left to discuss the findings in a place Stiles wouldn’t overhear.

Thundering down the stairs, Stiles rushes for the basement. He skids to a stop in front of Derek’s box.

“Hey,” he says, breathlessly. Seems he was always breathless around him. The man said nothing, but Stiles could read his body language. He had a wounded look about him, crammed into the back corner, farthest from the door. “They didn’t hurt you did they?”

Derek looks up at that, eyes flashing blue. Stiles very consciously backs away from the bars.

Something about this is reminding Stiles of a wounded dog.

Stiles tries to remember what to do here. Derek is human, in a way, right? If he was in his situation, he’d want a blanket, to get out and stretch, drink some water, get a shower. But he’s also a monster. So maybe letting him out would end in Stiles’ being mauled.

He licks his lips.

“If I let you out… If I let you out for a little bit to stretch,” he says quickly, still weighing his options. “Will you not kill me? And will you go back in, when my dad gets back?” Derek freezes, the words sinking in. His head whips around, from where he was staring dolefully at the wall. Stiles licks his lips again, and the older man watches the movement with an intensity that should be unsettling. “Would you be offended if I let you out on the condition I have a gun?”

Derek slowly moves towards the front of the box, staring intently, his eye brows dipping, speaking his curiosity for him. Stiles sucks in a deep breath.

“I want you to trust me, which is stupid, trusting me is the exact opposite you should do for your survival, but I don’t like this. So much of this situation is weird. I haven’t heard anything about attacks on people, or people getting hurt or crops dying or anything, and so I don’t know why you were hunted. I don’t understand why my dad is so strict about trying to keep me away, which is obviously failing to discourage me. I get you can be dangerous, I don’t doubt it. I don’t even know what you could be if you aren’t human, because everything about you is perfectly attractive and human until you take the blue eye thing into consideration, which I almost don’t.” He stops for a breath here. “So I guess I’m saying is I’m on your side and willing to let you out for a bit if you promise not to kill me and I’ll do my best to make sure they don’t kill you?”

“Just get me the fuck out of this damn box,” Derek growls, hands reaching for the bars and then pulling away again. Stiles nods, and runs to grab the magnetic box that opens the cages and a taser. He holds the box over the front corner of the box, punches in the Sheriff’s pin code. The door swings open on silent hinges. Stepping to the side, Stiles holds the taser in front of him, aiming it at Derek as he crawls out on stiff limbs.

Derek glares at the taser, plants his feet firmly on the ground, and straightens himself to his full height. He doesn’t know why, but Stiles is surprised to find their height to be pretty close, only an inch or so difference between them.

Weary, Stiles backs away, towards the stairs. Derek proceeds to stretch, reaching for his toes, jumping, swinging his arms around, and even doing a few push-ups. He almost seems to groan in pleasure. Stiles simply watches, marveling at the older man’s compact muscles, the way they strain and shift under his skin.

The man is doing a one armed push-up, his nose nearly touching the floor when he looks up, catches Stiles staring, and cocks a single eyebrow. He blushes at the look. Derek pushes himself up and stands, still staring at Stiles, tipping forward on his toes as if he wants to walk closer.

When he suddenly looks upward and instead steps backwards to the cage.

“Your father’s cruiser just turned onto the street,” he states calmly, folding himself back into the cage. Stiles nods, wondering why Derek could hear that, closes the door and locks it.

“I can do this again tomorrow, after school. Maybe even let you shower? Sheriff won’t be home until late.” Derek nods, but doesn’t answer, then jerks his head, dismissing the teen. Stile takes the cue, and rushes, getting back to his room just in time to hear the front door open.

*

School couldn’t have dragged on more. Between lessons he didn’t give two shits about, Scott’s curious and worried looks, then Allison’s strange questions, asking about the hunt, saying her dad wouldn’t share, Stiles was ready to scream. Instead he snarked and bitched and joked as he always did.

He even tried to make it look like he enjoyed suicide runs during lacrosse practice.

Finally home, Stiles wasn’t surprised to run into Deaton, who just happened to be leaving. Stiles nod a greeting, and starts pounding his way up the stairs to his room.

“You should be careful,” Deaton warns. Stiles stops, looking back, curiously, corralling this thoughts and facial expressions to be neutral. “Being home alone with that, it’d be best if you weren’t alone.”

“It’s locked up, right?” Stiles counters, hating the words on this tongue. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Plus, Sheriff will be home soon, only a little while until dinner.” Then he calmly walks the rest of the way to his room.

Once Deaton was gone, car turning off his street, he goes to the basement, grabbing the magnetic box but not the taser.

*

Stiles is sitting on the couch, reading Hamlet for class. He angrily turns a page, vowing his undying hate on Shakespeare.

“It’s better if you watch the movie. The Kenneth Branagh version is better, but you might like the Tennant version too,” Derek says, standing just behind him. Stiles jumps, having not noticed the bathroom door or his foot steps. The man is clean, still in the same clothes, having left them unwashed.

“Oh,” he says, looking back to his book. “Thanks?” Derek nods curtly, dropping the towel on the back of the couch and making his way to the basement. “You wanna go back so soon?”

“It’d be safer too. Isn’t your father due back soon?” Stiles looks at his phone, then shrugs.

“Still got like 45 minutes, why don’t you sit? And I don’t know, relax, and not go back to the box? A couch has to be better, for obvious reasons, I could list them if you aren’t sure—“ The words flowing out of Stiles halts as he watches Derek sit in his dad’s favorite seat. The man stretches out his legs languorously and stares at the wall in a way that suggested he isn’t looking at all.

Stiles cocks his head, observing. His heart pounds. This is weird, normal. And probably stupid in too many ways to count. A man, who is actually a monster, sitting in his living, talking about Hamlet after using his shower.

Oh right, the same man monster thing that his dad wants to kill and is doing everything to keep Stiles away from.

“So, uh…” Stiles preempts. “I’m going to ask again. What are you?”

“I’m a person.” He open his mouth to speak again, and pauses. He has a feeling Derek is avoiding the question.

“Obviously not, or my dad wouldn’t want you dead?”

“I’m not human, but I am a person.” Derek says, leveling his gaze on Stiles again, in the horribly intense way that made something stir in Stiles, made something not sit right with in him. Stiles sighs at that thought, he already feels like he doesn’t fit right in himself. He feels like a painfully awkward human being.

“But if you aren’t human…” he prompts again. Derek is still staring at him, his dark hair flat, still wet from the shower. Stiles fingers twitch, something about feeling his hair. Instead, he drags his palms against his own cropped hair. Derek sighs, leaning back into the chair. They stay like that, a long silence stretches between them.

Minutes pass, and Stiles continues reading, sometimes reading a line aloud. Derek responds, either stating the meaning, or commenting on the plot, his eyes closed.

Suddenly, Derek jerks forward, eyes flashing blue.

“He just turned onto the street,” and stands, quickly walking to the basement. Stile trails behind, dreading locking the man away again.

*

He lets Derek out again, the next day after school. He doesn’t say hello, doesn’t say anything, simply lets him out and leads him upstairs. Stiles sits in the same spot as yesterday, pulling out Hamlet again. Derek doesn’t move to go take a shower.

Instead he sits next to Stiles on the couch, their legs touching from knee to thigh.

Stiles stiffens with shock, which Derek interprets as fear and begins to move away. He mourns the loss and protests.

“Hey, no, what? Why are you moving away?” This earns him one of those looks from Derek where he says nothing, but his eyebrows speak volumes. “I was simply surprised, not saying no. Never saying no? Ok, because I’d be lying if I didn’t want to climb you like a tree.”

Stiles immediately regrets opening his mouth. Too much too soon. Too anything really. Stiles isn’t even sure himself where that came from. After all, Stiles has been pining after a certain strawberry blond angel since he was about 8 years old, and that wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. All he knows is he’s seen a lot of Derek these last few days, and doesn’t pity him… but maybe wants something.

No, doesn’t want. Thinks Derek deserves.

All people do.

He sucks in another breath. “I guess I’m saying is the only human contact you’ve actually had has been me, and I know for a fact touching is good for a healthy psychosis and if you wanna touch, then touch.” Stiles winces, realizing how that sounds. But instead of babbling more, he sighs and opens his book, diving back into Hamlet’s existential crisis of suicide or insanity.

Moments later, Derek is shifting back, pressing his leg back against Stiles’. The older man leans back into the couch, allowing all the tension to release. Stiles tries to concentrate on his reading, but can’t, distracted by the way how Derek’s hard muscled body feels next to him, feeling the way the stress and too tight muscles softens and relax. He can feel the tight muscles in his leg flutter against his own as they relax, and it sends a spasm though his own forever jittery body.

“Are you ever still?” Derek complains.

“Nope, the joy of ADHD. I don’t take my Adderall unless I’m researching anymore.” Derek sighs at that, rubbing a hand though his hair. Stiles’ watches the action, still wanting to do that himself. He gets caught staring, blushes, and glares studiously at his book. The older carefully sets his hand on the other’s knee.

Stiles doesn’t jump or tense, but rather cracks a small smile, and lets the hand rest there lightly.

They don’t say anything when Stiles has to lock Derek back in the box, but when he walks past the front, he doesn’t think anything of the touch Derek gives him though the bars.

*

They continue this schedule, Stiles letting Derek out, relaxing on the couch, lightly touching each other. Stiles finally runs his hands through Derek’s hair one afternoon, while they joke about Hamlet.

Every day, Derek hears the Sheriff’s cruiser, and Stiles carefully locks him away and sit back on the couch with his book before his dad makes it in the front door.

Its nearly two weeks later, and Stiles is confused. In many ways.

Confused as to why Derek was still alive. Most of the prey caught was kille—no, disposed of within a few days. Stiles couldn’t bring himself to think those words. Confused as to what Derek was beginning to mean to him. He really enjoyed the older man’s company. Still confused as to what the fuck Derek actually was. And confused about how he felt about Derek.

Like, he still wanted to climb him like a tree, but he was 17 year old with an ambiguous sexual orientation. He wanted to climb everyone like a tree.

The issue was how he dreamed of Derek some nights, made plans and thought of things he wanted to tell the older man while he was at school. Wanted to play lacrosse with him, or see a certain movie, or order pizza or things he always considered with Lydia.

He wonders vaguely if Derek is his newest obsession. Stiles really wonders why he’s always obsessed with gorgeous things he can never have.

He tries not to think about after he locks Derek away again, after dinner with his father, and after he half assedly bullshits his homework. When he’s lying in bed, and all Stiles can think about are his hands on his body, the way those strong hands ghost over his skin in the lightest touches. Likes he’s scared to touch, like he’ll hurt the teen if he isn’t careful.

And Stiles fucking loves it.

And maybe he lays in bed, trying to sleep, and can’t stop thinking about those damn hands. Though Stiles would never admit, he wants Derek to touch him the way he fantasizes about, the way he grips and pulls until he feels himself coming.

He pretends Derek can’t hear him, probably, even when he can hear something almost a block away, there’s no way he can hear him on the second floor, right?

Right, Stiles thinks to himself decidedly.

*

Wednesday, the afternoon after Stiles gets home from school goes just like all the other. He lets Derek out of the box, Derek showers. After he’s done showering, the two sit on the couch while Stiles reads for English, and they cuddle, touch, and tease. The day goes like every other they’ve had since Stiles started letting Derek out.

But one thing goes differently.

It when Stiles is locking Derek up again. The teen leads the older man to the basement, to the box Stiles will always think of as his, when Derek grabs his wrist, pulls him back into his body. Stiles freezes, feeling Derek’s muscled body pressed against the entire length of him. He can feel Derek’s nose pressed to behind his ear. His heart thuds in his chest, Derek’s hands on his hips now. It takes every shred of Stiles’ willpower not to lean back into him.

He does close his eyes, sighing into the intimacy of the moment.

Derek moves one hand to Stiles’ chest, pressing him harder into his own body, his other hand staying on Stiles’ hip. His willpower breaks, and Stiles finds himself grinding back into Derek. The only man groans into his neck and he shivers, the warm breath ghosting over sensitive skin.

“Oh my god,” he pants. Derek hums behind him. Suddenly, Stiles is facing Derek, and he’s being kissed, deep and chaste. Derek has one hand on the back of his head, the other on his hip, holding him close. Stiles kisses back, angles his head to their noses don’t mash together, and closes his eyes. Its Derek who breaks the kiss off, staying close.

“Your dad will be in the house soon,” he whispers. Stiles nods, and pulls Derek by the hand down the stairs, through the rows, to his damn box. He folds himself in the box and Stile’s crouches down, leans into the box for a quick kiss.

After he locks it walks past the front again, Derek’s hand reaches out, grabs Stiles’ ankle. He drops to his knees before the box without thinking and leans in for another kiss, his hand gripping a bar. This time there’s tongue, the kiss gets messy, the two straining against the bars to get to one another. They stop when even Stiles’ can hear the car door to the cruiser slam shut.

“Go,” Derek commands. Stile’s nods and stands. Backing away, he hurries for the stairs. “Stiles,” Derek calls, and he stops. He looks over the row separating them now, looks at Derek pressed against the bars. “I’m a werewolf.”

*

Stiles is just sitting on the couch when his dad walks through the door.

“Sup, Pops,” he greets, opening his book for class, no longer Hamlet, but now Of Mice and Men. Turns out, Derek likes Steinbeck. The man seems to be well educated in the way of literature.

“Hey, Kiddo,” the sheriff responds. Stiles smiles, and tries to engross himself in his reading, and fails miserably. “So, we’re going to do a public execution this weekend of the beast we caught a few weeks ago, and I was thinking you should go on a day trip out of town with Scott and some of the other kids from school,” the sheriff says, putting around in the kitchen, his tone casual. Stiles feezes, his heart pounding in his ears. He almost doesn’t hear his dad asking if he wanted pasta or if they should order out.

A public execution. Of Derek.

“Uh, so why a public execution? We should totally get pad thai,” he attempts at being lightness, but his voice sounds breathy, far away. He feels cold. It’s like that one sentence gummed up every cog and wheel in Stiles’ head and he can’t seem to work past it, and he’s trying to think of some way to maybe stop the execution when he has a horrible realization.

Derek heard what his father said.

Derek knows he has three days left to live.

Stiles honestly doesn’t remember what they eat for dinner, what they talk about and how he gets to his room or when he showers. But suddenly Stiles is sitting in front of his laptop, in sweatpants, shirtless, his towel hanging over one shoulder. His breath comes in unsteady gasps, uneven and ragged. His brain keeps saying it needs more air, but not matter how much of the stuff Stiles sucks in or how quickly he does it, it isn’t enough. His heart thuds in his chest, his stomach clenches.

The floor beneath Stiles’ feet feels like its tilting, sliding out from under him. His grasp on control slips and he finds himself falling to pieces at his desktop in his carefully cleaned room, with a werewolf in the basement locked away in a box.

Surprisingly, it’s that thought that help Stiles reign it in, gain control. The idea of Derek, not 50 feet away, able to hear him, and knowing if he wasn’t in the damnable box, he’d be holding his hand and riding this out with him. Stiles can only imagine the soothing sounds he would make, the quiet huffs and low growls he’s come to know so well.

He pulls in a slow breath, in through his nose, holds it for 20 seconds that are carefully counted, and lets it woosh out his mouth. He does this a second time. Then a third.

Finally, Stiles feels his heart begin to settle. Digging his fingers into his sweatpants, he squeezes his eyes shut, and comes to a resolve.

“I’m not going to let them kill you,” he says with all the strength that he is.

*

Many hours of research and half a bottle of Adderall later, Stiles finds himself at the high school about 2 hours early, not knowing what else to do. He meanders to the library, and sits to read more of his compiled notes about werewolves, wolfsbane, moon meanings, werewolf magic, and every other imaginable thing that might pertain to werewolves. It feels like years, but it was only an hour ago when Stiles texted Scott, saying he needed to talk to him before school started. There still wasn’t a reply.

Classes are to start in about 15 minutes when Scott barrels in through the double doors, the librarian glaring.

“Stiles! What was that text about?” He sounds, scared, worried, ready to break and pounce to protect his friend.

“Nothing, just need your help.” Scott stares for a bit.

“Is this about the monster?” Stiles is surprised, really. He forgets that Scott can be perceptive sometimes, and he honestly has his heart in the right place.

“Yes,” he starts, sees Scott protesting already. “But it isn’t dangerous. It’s just… they’re going to kill him this weekend, and he’s the last… the last whatever.” He takes a breath, steals himself for what he wants to say. “Dad wants us all out of town, you, me, Allison, any other friends we want to take. But I’m not going. And I need your help, I need you to cover for me.”

“Just tell me what to do.”

*

The Sheriff watches as Stiles packs a bag of clothes, Friday after school. The kids are set to drive up to San Francisco that night, spend the night, frolic through the city, spend the night again, and come home early Sunday. All arranged by Allison, to say with Uncle something-or-other Argent in his glorious estate just outside of the city.

Stiles reminds himself to thank Jesus, Odin, and Shiva for Allison. Without her, certain parts of this plan would have never happened.

As far as Stiles knows, the Sheriff talked to Chris Argent, got his approval, and then Allison arranged the rest, all agreeing to take her much more reliable car. Only the Sheriff thought they were taking the Jeep, for space.

Which was perfect really.

Because once Stiles had Derek, he was going to get the hell out of dodge and so is his Jeep was seen making its way out of town, and the Sheriff was alerted, nothing would be amiss.

Right?

Unless, someone said something about the Jeep going away from San Fran, but that just meant Stiles needed to leave town by heading toward San Fran and oh god, what did he get himself into?

Stiles carefully breathes, smiles, and straightens up from packing his bag. He hugs his dad, tells him he loves him. Then, Scott yells from downstairs, asking if he’s ready and he wants to leave now. Stiles sighs, laughs, and thunders down the stairs.

As he’s leaving the house, his dad pulls him into one last quick hug. This will the longest they’ve been apart in a long time. Since Mom dying, Stiles thinks. “Be safe, son,” is all he says.

“I always am.”

Stiles throws his bag in the back of his Jeep, covering the one he stashed that morning. The bag with two pairs of jeans, 4 more wife beaters, and a pack of boxers, all too big for Stiles. Scott does the same, and Stiles reminds himself he also needs to thank Jesus, Buddha, and a mountain god that Scott’s house is in the same direction as Allison’s. Because that’s the rendezvous point for the hardest part of this plan.

Well, the whole thing is the hardest part, Stiles thinks to himself.

Scott fidgets nervously until they pull up to his house, the windows dark and Allison waiting for them in her car. Ms McCall was at work. The three all get out of their cars and walk to one another. There’s a moment of nervous quiet.

“You sure you don’t want a crossbow or something?” Allison breaks it.

“Wouldn’t be worth it. If I’m caught, I can’t shoot back, I don’t know how, and I’m a shitty shot. Plus, it’d get in the way while I’m creeping around.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if I stayed and helped?” Its Scott’s turn to offer. Stiles smiles, his best friend, so eager to help.

“Dude, one scrawny teenager is enough. Plus, your asthma. The basement would be so bad for it.”

Another silence, and Stiles knows it’s time for him to get moving. Scott and Allison know too. A quick hug from both, and a clap on the back from Scott, and he’s off, speeding off in his Jeep, Allison and Scott driving off in her car.  
*

Stiles hugs himself, trying to hold in the warmth. He has his Jeep parked in the woods, outside of a burned shell of a house. The woods are a perfect hiding place, until Scott and Allison are out of town, until the Sheriff is headed to the station to finish the preparations for the execution. The woods are perfect, but the house was unexpected. He’s tempted to get out and explore.

Glancing at the dashboard clock, Stiles sees his dad should be heading to the station any moment, having eavesdropped on all his dad’s phone conversations for the last two days, piecing together his schedule. He counts to ten, counts to ten again, and then twenty. Starting the Jeep, he throws it into reverse and takes a roundabout way back to his house.

He thinks he’s sees the Sheriff cruiser twice, nearly running off the road each time, and sees a deputy once. Stiles thinks he turns and get himself hidden in traffic before the officer noticed it was him. He thinks.

*

Standing at the top of the stairs to the basement, Stiles breathes. He hasn’t opened the door yet, his ear pressed against the door, trying to figure out if there was a guard or not. He can’t hear, and suddenly he’s jealous of Derek’s stupid super-werewolf hearing.

Cursing, Stiles cracks the door, crouches, and peaks through the crack. He can hear better this way, and as his eyes adjust to the darkness of the basement, he realizes no one’s keeping watch. If they were, the lights and spot lights would be on, burning into Derek’s face to disorient him and give the humans with worse eye sight an advantage.

Stiles’ narrows his eyes suspiciously, and leaves to door open to run down the stairs. He pulls the unlocking mechanism from his pocket, having stolen it the day before. He leaps over the rows of boxes, sliding ungainly over them, and drops in front of Derek.

The door swings open, and Derek looks up at him, face blank like the first time they met.

“Come on, we need to go,” Stiles urges, reaching in to grab his arm. “Quickly.” He tugs on his arm, but Derek doesn’t budge. “Please, Derek, we need to leave now.”

The older looks up at him, and Stiles finally notes the baleful look in his eye.

“I’m the last one,” slips from his mouth, lips barely moving. “I’ve been the only one a long time. I’ve stopped caring, Stiles.” And now its Stiles’ turn to look blank.

“Derek, what the actual fuck? You told me you aren’t just a werewolf, that you were a person too. And I’m pretty sure every person deserves a life, no matter their race or whatever you want to call this werewolf bullshit because sometimes I’m not even sure what that means but can we please go and talk about this some other fucking time because this crisis is really low on my list and all I want to do is stop my dad from trying to kill you because I’m pretty sure he’s wrong and Derek, get the fuck out of that box right now or I will taze the shit out of you and drag out of it.” The words woosh out of him, Stiles finds himself filling with a nervous jittery rage, the kind that shakes his whole body and makes it hard to see. Derek looks surprised, his nostrils flared and finally unfolds to crawl out of the box.

“Oh thank Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I did not want to taze you. Because I probably can’t carry your heavy ass, But we need to hurry.” He’s finally out of the box, and Stiles take his hand, all but sprinting for the stairs and out the door.

“Wait,” Derek digs in his heels, stopping both of them. He’s still for a second, and Stiles doesn’t dare breath. “I hear someone in the house. Is there we can get out without being seen?”

“Uh, uh,” Stiles stalls, shuffling, mind firing on all pistons. “I know, guest room, out the window, around the garage, to my Jeep parked in the alley?” Derek nods.

Too many tense moments later, Stiles is throwing the Jeep into drives, trying not to kill the engine but still get them the hell out of dodge before someone notices the suspicious absence of their werewolf.

*

They’re sitting on a hill, watching the sunrise. It’s Saturday. The day Derek was sentenced to die. Stiles sighs, and tips backwards until he’s laying spread eagle, eyes on the great expanse before him, the blue bleeding into reds and yellows.

“I’m so tired,” he groans. Derek scoffs.

“I went from being held from a small metal box for over two weeks to being held in a slightly larger metal box for 12 hours.”

“Hey, my baby has lots of leg room, don’t you dare insult her! And I could have just left you.” The words freeze in his mouth. Derek smirks.

“I can hear your heart.” Stiles groans again. No, he couldn’t have left him.

“So what now? You’re free.”

“I don’t know.” A long gap opens up between them, silence filling it. Stiles fights the urge to fill it with words. “I guess, when everyone died, I stopped thinking of what now.” Stiles freezes, stops fidgeting, and realized in a distant part of his mind that he stops moving around Derek a lot.

“What do you mean?”

“When an alpha dies, the next in line becomes the alpha. My pack is dead. My family is dead. I should be alpha but I’m not.”

“Because you’re eyes are blue? What if someone lived?” Derek sighs. Stares at the grass between his boots, and picks at it.

“No one lived. I buried them all myself. Some were burned alive, Laura was severed in two, Peter was decapitated, and I buried them all with wolfsbane. To rest their souls,” he explains. There’s something horrible in his eyes, the way he watches his hands, like they’re still covered in blood and dirt.

Stiles remembers his mom dying, the slow decay of her life before his young eyes. The way she looked less like herself with every new medicine and drug the doctors pumped into her. He remembers when they buried her, full of chemicals and horrible makeup everyone said make her looks so vibrant and alive. All Stiles was a broken husk of the bright and energetic woman he loved.

He shivers, thinking of doing that more than once.

“Maybe it’s because you’re alone. You don’t have a pack to be alpha of.” Derek’s stillness deepens, and he moves closer. Suddenly he’s laying back, wrapping an arm around Stiles to pull him close.

“Are you telling me to make a pack? Make werewolves?”

“Depends how you define pack. Dictionary tells me a pack is family.” Stiles looks at him through the corner of his eye. “Can humans be pack?”

“Do… do you want to be my pack?” Derek asks, and suddenly he’s over Stiles, his arms on either side of his head, and he’s kind of really distracted by the press on his thighs over is lower abdomen. Stiles tries not to buck up into him then.

“Yes, I do,” is all he can manage, mostly breathless. Then Derek’s mouth is crashing into his and Stiles is pushing back, carding his fingers through his hair. Derek’s finger slip beneath hem of his shirt, and gasps a little bit at the coldness of his fingers.

Stiles grabs a fistful of Derek’s hair and tugs, trying to pull him closer, to deepen their kiss, and he growls but obliges. He’s pushing the teen’s shirt up now, fingers ghosting over his sides. Then he thumbs his nipple and Stiles actually groans at that.

“Come one, take it off,” He whines at the older man, pulling at his shirt, instead of letting embarrassment take over for the sound he made. Derek grins, and tugs it off with a quick swoop of one arm. “Impressive.” Stiles grins back and props himself up on shaking arms to kiss him again, licking his lips to gain access.

He flops onto his back again when Derek leans down, and moves to kiss his neck. His breath catches, and he relishes the way stubble rubs against sensitive skin, combined with sharp bites, slick tongue, and gentle kisses. Shivering, he thinks it’s almost too much and moans.

“Oh my god, fuck, Derek, fuck, of god, fuck, just… Jesus and the thirteen apostles, fuck,” comes the litany of swears from Stiles. The older man laughs a bit and pushes his face up from where he had drifted to his nipples.

“You know, this isn’t even sex yet,” he teases

“Hey, virgin here. These be uncharted waters.” And he blushes, feels the heat in his cheeks. Derek seems almost taken aback, but instead of saying anything, he kisses the teen deeply, but full of something he almost can’t interpret. A thrum of energy runs through his body, and he’s sure Derek can feel his body vibrating with it.

Grass prickles his back, and he shifts under Derek, moving his hand to hold his hip, the other to trace his nipple. The older man startles at the unexpected touch, and shifts his weight, making Stiles push his legs up to wrap them around his waist. He can feel Derek’s hardness pushing against his ass.

“Oh god,” he breathes. “Can I just say yes? If that was ever a doubt, just yes, so much yes, I would do the yes dance thing and yes so hard I die if it meant this happened, because yes.” Derek laughs at that, free and open.

“Just shut up already.”

“We know that is never going to happen. But there is one thing I will say no to, is this grass. The Jeep’s back seat folds down to a bed.” And suddenly Derek has him on his feet, and Stiles is laughing, grabbing their clothes. He can’t keep his hands off Stiles, and smacks his ass when he bends to pick up their shirts. “Fuck, ouch! Really?”

“Really,” he says with a wicked grin.

“I swear, I’m going to get revenge. In the most inopportune moment.” And Derek laughs again, and instead crowds up against him, thumbing his nipple and kissing his neck where it meets his shoulder. “But not right now. Now is sexy times.”

Stiles finds his back pressed against the way too cold metal of the Jeep. He fumbles with the door handle for a moment, refusing to turn away from the intent werewolf in front of him before he gets the door handle, and Derek pushes him inside, laying him down. He leans down over him, kissing his lips, neck, collar bone and nipples, chasing every kiss with a nip or lick.

“How do I get the damn seat down?” he complains into Stiles’ skin making the younger man laugh.

“There’s a lever, and you have a push at the same time.” Derek fiddles with it for a moment before the bench is suddenly flat, and Derek slips with the surprise of it, crushing their two bodies together. Stiles laughs a little a gently kisses him, before snaking his hands down to his pants, one hand groping his ass, the other unbuttoning. Derek bucks into Stiles, pulling a groan out of him.

“Ok, this needs to happen now.” The werewolf growls an agreement, tugging off his own jeans and boxers, then pulling off Stiles’, his pants baggy enough they don’t need unbuttoned.

“You made this easy,” and Stiles can’t help but laugh again. He looks over Derek, amazed at his build again. He pushes himself up to wrap his arms around his neck, and dragging a leg up to his hip, grinding his dick into Derek. The older man gasps, and Stiles’ feels a hand on him, a thumb pressing and stroking against the sensitive skin at the base of the head.

Its Stiles’ turn to gasp, and he holds a groan in. Then Derek repositions his hand and Stiles feels his dick rubbing against his own. He doesn’t try to hold in the groan this time, hips rearing up into Derek’s hand. Breathing out swears, he lifts himself towards Derek and bites hard onto his neck, wringing a purely indecent moan from him.

“I’m not going to last long,” he mutters into his skin. And Derek shakes his head, eyes closed and intent as his fist starts to pump over both their cocks. Stiles pushes himself up into every pump, hands on Derek’s shoulders, his eyes trained on that hand. His breathes come in shorter and shorter pants, a building growing in his gut, his balls. With every pump, he feels it coming closer.

He flicks his eyes up to Derek and almost comes right then.

The look on his face, his fucking face, is all Stiles can think about. The wrecked looked, mouth open, eyes downcast, when they flick up to his. And the pupils are blown, completely dilated in fuck if Stiles knows what emotion. It’s all too much, and he moans, grinds out every swear and curse he can think of as he comes all over his chest, stomach, and Derek’s hand. Derek’s hand stills and he starts to lift off of him with a groan of cramped muscles.

“What, no, what are you doing? You haven’t—that’s not fair to you, get back here,” Stiles complains. Suddenly, he has an idea in his devious little mind. He leans forward, pressing a quick hard kiss to Derek’s mouth that still hangs open, flicking his tongue in while pushing Derek back, trying to force him into a sitting position.

“Stiles—“ He tries to complain, but the younger teen won’t let him, stifling each word with a kiss or a bite of his lip. “What are you—“ And Stiles kisses his neck where he bit earlier, then his collar bone, grazes his teeth over one nipple while he scraped his blunt nails over the other. Shifting until he’s sitting on the floor of his Jeep, Stiles finds himself face to face with Derek’s dick. He grins up at him.

Then, before his nerves can tell him this is stupid, you’re obviously going to choke and die somehow, Stiles licks his dicks from base to tip. He wraps his hand around the base, and angles his head to catch the tip in his mouth. Looking up, he takes delight in Derek’s shocked face, then runs his tongue over the ridge, swirling it completely around the head. Derek moans, and throws his head back, hands twitching at his sides.

Opening his mouth more, Stiles takes more of his dick into his mouth. He can’t get it all, but he holds the rest with his hand, and begins jerking him off as he sucks, bobbing his head with the movement of his fist. Derek’s hand comes to rest on the side of his head, caressing as he pants, and sometimes bucking into his fist and mouth. Tensing and scraping his nails through Stiles’ short buzzed hair, he comes with a hoarse shout. Stiles’ does his best to swallow it all but some dribbles on his chin.

Derek pulls his head up to his, licks his chin and kisses him in a such a gentle way, it turns Stiles boneless. The older man tucks Stiles against his side, wrapping arms around him, leaning against the door.

*

Its hours later, after rounds 2 and 3 when Derek speaks. They’re lying on the flattened bench, Derek on his back and Stiles pressed into his side, head resting on his chest.

“So what now?” And Stiles almost laughs at the echo.

“What do you mean?”

“Is this all, or is there more?” Suddenly, Stiles understands.

“I have to graduate from high school, which is this spring, and then I’ll go anywhere, where ever you are. I’ll figure out school. It isn’t like I have any idea with what I’m doing.”

“No, you decide where you want to be, for college. I can follow.” Stiles stills for a moment, staring at Derek, and nuzzles into his chest.

“What will you do until then?”

“Travel, build a pack. Look for others?” He pauses, scratching fingers against Stiles’ scalp. “I’ll get a phone, we’ll talk when we both can. And the Sheriff?”

“I’ll have until I leave for college to work on him, right? I can be convincing. Sometimes.” Derek huffs a short laugh, and cranes his neck towards the teen. Stiles smiles, and arches, meeting him in a kiss. “We’ll make it work.”

“Yeah, we’ll make it work.”

-Epilogue-

Stiles is checking his Jeep one last time, making sure he hasn’t forgotten a box, or a bag, or some sort of important thing he’ll need for his meeting with the loan officer of his college in a few minutes. He’s parked in front of his off-campus but still college owned apartment. A bright blue folder containing his dad’s tax records that the school requested for some reason peeks out from under the passenger seat.

Groaning, Stiles reaches for it, trying to grab it from the driver’s side. That’s when he hears a car pull up behind him. Finally nabbing the stupid folder, he ducks out of his Jeep to see an annoyingly flashy black Camaro.

“Really?”

“Really,” Derek responds, grinning widely, rolling down his window. He’s wearing sun glasses and it creates a weird disconnect in Stiles’ head. He almost expects the werewolf to tell him to get in loser, we’re going shopping. Snorting at the idea, he walks up to the window and leans down.

“So, why the flashy car?” Their lips brush, close but not kissing. Not yet.

“I needed a car, and I liked it.” They kiss then. “I mean, I have the money. Life insurance.” Stiles blinks, and then laughs.

“Life insurance? A family of werewolves had life insurance?” The laugh continues to bubble out of him. “Oh, oh I guess you’re people too, so it would make sense.”

Derek sighs, shaking his head, and pulls the younger man in for a kiss.

“When do you have your meeting for loans?” Stiles glances at his phone.

“Half an hour.”

“My place?”

“Your place.” And Stiles dashes around the car to jump in the passenger seat.


End file.
